


so much more than me

by wearethewitches



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Family, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Character(s) of Color, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/F, F/M, Gen, Irondad, Kid Peter Parker, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov-centric, What Have I Done, ironfam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: [MCU shift, alternate canon + canon divergence; where i take vengeance on the Russos for the fuck-up that is murdering the best two characters in the mcu and simultaneously make people less white and more messed in the head]“She has Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s trauma and training in one,” Richard Parker mutters dismissively. He runs a hand through his pale brown hair, eyes twitching in anxiety around the lab. “You saw her after we told her. The state of mind she was in during her pregnancy is buried deep, now. Unless she has another child, there’s no chance she’ll remember. Her comprehension of events is shattered.”"…good,” Mary eventually mutters. She looks down at Subject N, the five week old baby that is the Black Widow’s son.





	so much more than me

**CHAPTER ONE**

_ 2001-11-17 _

Papers shuffle. Crackles and pops echo throughout the quiet laboratory, backlit by the beeping of a heart-monitor and the _zip_ of a shredder.

“Is she contained enough?” Mary Parker questions her husband, who lifts the lid off of the shredder once it’s done, emptying the contents into the small fire that’s already burning inside a waste-paper basket. Evidence for their crimes, Doctors Richard and Mary Parker are eager to dispose of the proof of their most recent scientific discoveries in genetics. “Richard – the Black Widow, are we sure she’s dissociated enough?”

“She has Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s trauma and training in one,” Richard mutters dismissively. He runs a hand through his pale brown hair, eyes twitching in anxiety around the lab. “You saw her after we told her. The state of mind she was in during her pregnancy is buried deep, now. Unless she has another child, there’s no chance she’ll remember. Her comprehension of events is shattered.”

“…good,” Mary eventually mutters. She looks down at Subject N, the five week old baby that is the Black Widow’s son, lying inside the clear plastic incubator. His premature skin is a blotchy pink and pale gold, clearly Slavic like his mother. Already, Mary can see how much healthier he is compared to a week ago, when he was struggling for breath and unable to thermally regulate.

His tiny hand curl around her index finger and she feels a primal jealousy at the action. Why should he still be moving and reacting to her presence? Why should an _experiment_ survive when her Emily didn’t? Poor Emily – ashes, now, her death left only in their memories.

“Mine.” The woman whispers to the replacement baby, where he wriggles in his incubator. “You’re mine, now.”

“Yes, he’s yours, now – disconnect him from the monitors, already,” Richard orders Mary, impatient to be gone.

“Fine,” Mary says, untangling her finger before methodically unclipping Subject N from the various monitors, pausing only once to gently soothe him. Removing the cannula in his leg, that leads to the IV of gene-modifying serum, causes his to cry out. “Do we have a car-seat?” she asks her husband, the random thought popping into her head.

Richard pauses.

“Shit. We don’t, do we? What happened to Emily’s?”

“At the house,” Mary says, turning off the appliances at the wall before bundling the baby up in his blanket properly. He’s tiny in her gangly arms, whimpering and squiggling about at the abrupt change in temperature. “Give me your jacket. He’s cold.”

“Fine,” Richard rolls his eyes, taking off his raincoat and handing it over. “If anyone asks, his name is Peter Benjamin. I got the birth certificate sorted out last night. Everything is in shambles from the attack on the World Trade Centres – everything but not the black market, apparently.”

Mary looks over at her husband in betrayal. “And you didn’t tell me? What if- what if I wanted to call him after _my_ relatives?”

“You’ve got a great grandfather called Peter, let it lie, Mary.” Richard looks hurriedly at his watch. “I’m going to do one last sweep. You get to the car.”

Mary wraps Subject N – _Peter Benjamin Parker_ – up in Richard’s coat before doing as he says, hurrying to the car and shushing their stolen son when he cries.

Outside, New York storms.

* * *

_ 2002-03-22 _

“There is something different about you, Natasha.”

Natalia leans back into the warmth of the James’ chest, shrugging minutely at his attentions. She feels his metal arm trace along her hip and briefly, she looks up, catching the frown tugging at his usually expressionless face.

“You’ve been out of the ice too long, Yasha. You’re starting to develop _opinions_ ,” she drawls.

James’ arms twist, clamping around her waist and turning her. Natalia loses her sense of balance for a moment, before he rests her on his lap instead of against him, eyes tracing her figure.

“You’ve got a new shape to you, darlin’. It’s…” his eyes go distant, tugging at a well in Natalia’s stomach she knows means _memories_ and _past_. “…familiar.”

Natalia pushes off his lap, shaking her head. “No, Yasha. I can see your face – I know what you are trying to do.”

“I don’t like it, Natasha,” he says, looking at her but still so _unfocused._ “Why aren’t I allowed to think? Why can’t I remember?”

“Because you are not a good asset,” Natalia cuts, causing him to flinch. His reaction is so strange that she falters, not knowing what to do. “Yasha…”

“There is something different about you. What have you done since I was last put in the Chair?”

“A lot of things, Yasha. Unlike some, I don’t have the luxury of sleep between missions.” Her words are whispers and she finds herself hovering near him again, his hand around her wrist. It’s a loose, fragile contact – unfamiliar and yet, comforting. It is not hard enough to break her wrist, nor is it meant to contain. She could slip out of his grip without force or swiftness. He would just…let her go.

“I do not want to sleep, anymore,” he says, tears appearing in his pale blue eyes. “Natasha, I don’t want to go back to the Chair-”

“Hush, Yasha,” Natalia interrupts him, seating herself on his lap and taking his face in her own. She strokes and croons, pressing her forehead to his own. “I was in America, working with scientists by the name of… _Parker_. They were married. I don’t know what I was doing there, though – none of my personas know. I cannot remember anything past meeting them. We don’t remember the mission.”

“Did they put you in the Chair, too?” James mumbles and she knows his words aren’t meant to be said – he’s too lost, she can see it in his eyes. The Winter Soldier’s conditioning is losing to James’ will, as it always does. This is the fourth time he’s been out of the ice long enough that he’s begun to remember.

Natalia brushes his hair behind his ear, glancing at their mark through the window, where she’s talking politics at a rally in the plaza. Yasha will be in no place to assassinate her while Natalia takes the American bodyguards on a merry chase. Why their handlers thought Natalia needed a babysitter, she doesn’t know – but the bodyguards are accompanied by someone they have no information on, a specialised operative that may need more expert handling than usually. James is supposed to kill the politician and now both jobs fall on Natalia.

 _You make my job even harder sometimes, Yasha,_ she sighs to herself, slumping against him.

The handlers will know if they run. They’ll be alerted as soon as the woman leaves her meeting, alive and well. They have three hours, at most, to figure out an excuse for the other spies out in the city, ever-watching on the Red Room’s behalf, if they wanted to run – and Natalia knows that _she_ does. She has done too many evil things in her lifetime. She shall run or she shall die, now. There have been too many missions of late where she wants to flee. This mission shall be her last, if she has any choice at all.

“There is nothing I can do,” Natalia mumbles to herself, feeling free for once. _I shall run or I shall die. No more, no less_. “Do you remember the time we tried to run, Yasha? It was our twelfth time away together on a mission, back in sixty-three. You hadn’t been out long enough to remember, but you loved me anyway.”

Natalia clutches James tightly, like he’s a life-raft and this tiny hotel room they’re sitting in is the Russian sea. He’s still distant, throughout.

 _What has changed about me? Why would it trigger him into this state?_ Natalia thinks of her own triggers, trained into her when it became clear her mind was pulling itself apart to deal with her experiences in the Red Room’s grasp. With the right situation and the right prompting, Natalia can become a ballerina for the _Mariinsky_ ballet or even James’ _Natasha_ – though often, Natalia finds herself as both Natalia _and_ Natasha. It makes her dizzy, being both, especially with how underdeveloped Natasha is.

There’s a rapid thumping on the inside of her skull. Natalia is more Natasha than Natalia, but the Black Widow is in wait, close to the surface because they have a _job_ to do and their target is in sight. Natalia thinks of why James was tracing her hips and staring at her in confusion, like she isn’t lining up against the jigsaw-piece labelled _Natasha_ in his mind.

**_NO._ **

Natalia lets go of James quickly. What is _Natasha_ recedes and Natalia sinks onto the bed beside him, picking up a nearby magazine and faux-reading the gossip on Hungary’s newest reason not to enter the Eurovision Song Contest. _I’ve not heard her voice like that before_ , Natalia thinks, feeling uncentred and shaky.

The Black Widow never speaks to them unless it’s about the mission.

 _How did the Parker mission changed us? Why can’t we remember? Does the Black Widow remember?_ Natalia thinks, feeling the pounding lessen. The Black Widow is lurking closer than before, so close that Natalia is both _Natalia_ and _Black Widow._

No – no, the Black Widow doesn’t remember, but she’s connected something. It’s important.

 ** _Leave it be,_** the Black Widow orders. **_It hurts, whatever happened. If it was still important now, we’d never have forgotten._**

 _I believe you,_ Natalia thinks, disregarding her care for it finally, before she looks to James. _What if Yasha figures it out?_

The Black Widow doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t have to. Natalia knows she doesn’t think James will discover secrets that they keep from themselves. James is good, under all that Mother Russia has done to him. Natalia stares at his vacant eyes and wonders how long it will take him to become himself again – if the person he is underneath will be able to deal with the strain of fifty years of murder and terrorism.

 _I don’t want him to break,_ Natalia thinks. _I do not wish for him to become a ghost of himself, when he finally breaks through. But we cannot complete the mission as a team and he will be put in the Chair for longer, in cryo for longer, when they realise what state he’s in._

 ** _The mission,_ **the Black Widow thinks. **_Change the mission. We are our own being, if many amongst ourselves._**

 _We can’t take orders from ourselves, that’s not how it works,_ Natalia thinks, uneasy at the Black Widow’s contact. It’s strange for her to speak at all. _We’re not allowed._

 ** _The handlers don’t let us take orders from each other, Natalia to Black Widow or Black Widow to Natalia._** The Black Widow corrects her coolly. **_We are the closest things to equals here, in our brain. We can’t decide. We need someone new to get around the programming._**

 _They’d have to be stubborn, like Yasha,_ Natalia thinks, aligning with her alternate self’s ideals. _Willing to sacrifice us for the greater good. We will fight her. We’re too broken not to, once she starts to fight us. What if we overcome her? She will go for me first, I am weaker – that will leave her with just you to fight. We shall take her orders._

**_No. She’ll fight me first, not you. The Soldier is not the same as us. We are many, a system of selves whom upon we each lean. The Soldier and James and Yasha are one, strung like thread and wound into a ball. He loses who he is, the more lost he becomes; but he will help whichever us controls him and love them anyway._ **

_I don’t understand. How are you connected to Yasha’s freedom?_

**_I know his Words._ **

Natalia hisses out loud, distressed at her discovery, fist clenching. _You shouldn’t know those!_

**_I do, though and there’s no changing that. She shall fight me to use them first._ **

_We shouldn’t give them to her at all._

**_Why?_ **

_Because that’s the point of her. She’s freedom. Freedom for us and freedom for Yasha. She can’t know or her purpose is fragmented,_ Natalia insists. The Black Widow is silent for a moment and then she agrees.

They reach – pulling at the formless _Natasha_ and instilling life into her, developing a consciousness they both dislike and love with equal measure. Where Natalia is broken and static, Natasha is evolving, adaptive; where the Black Widow is ruthless and pragmatic, Natasha is logical and honest.

 _Why would you make me?_ she asks. In the background, the rally is over and done with; the hotel room phone is ringing. They’ve disassociated too long, taken too long to build a persona like they’ve been taught. Natasha asks them questions. _Why have a rebel? If the handlers ever find out, they’ll never trust us again._

 _‘Rebels do what is right, not what is easy,’_ Natalia tells her. _‘And we’re not so stupid that we’ll push you from the headspace if we’re ever found out. We need you, Natasha.’_

 ** _We can’t. You must,_** the Black Widow says simply.

“Come on, James,” Natasha mutters out loud, putting down the sagging magazine and hauling her partner up. She catalogues the ringing phone and ignores it with a burning intensity. “We don’t have much time.”

The phone rings on behind them as they leave the hotel room, then finally stops.

* * *

_ 2002-04-26 _

There’s a crunching noise to her left. Natasha looks, finding Agent Barton by her side with an apple. He offers her another, which she takes, rubbing it against her SHIELD-issue hoodie. The part of her that enjoys the softness of the fabric is tucked away, put in that place where all her amusements and physical loves go.

“Your boyfriend is still AWOL,” the archer casually states.

“I know,” Natasha replies. Inside, she feels that familiar ache of abandonment, but it’s accompanied by the knowledge that it’s his decision. She remembers what he said to her before he left. _You’ll see me again._ “He’ll come back one day.”

“What if the Russians get him?” Barton asks frankly. “I mean, c’mon Nat, you really think he’ll last out there? He’s pretty recognisable, with just one arm, y’know.”

“My name is Natasha, now – and you’d be surprised at how well he can blend in,” Natasha says, finally taking a bite of her apple. They match each other’s paces, walking through the Triskelion like there aren’t cameras trained on her at all times. “He dislikes authority.”

“His brain is even more fucked than yours.”

“Let’s agree to disagree,” Natasha declines. She stops at a corner, Barton stopping with her. The archer is an unusual asset, but inside her, the Black Widow is prowling. The mission Natasha set her is ensuring James’ freedom, regardless of their own – something Natalia had fought her for and lost – and Barton’s questions are riling the assassin in her up.

Barton squints at her. “How’s your murder-y side doing?”

“She’s pissed at you.”

“That close, huh?” Barton notes, still watching her. “What set her off?”

**_Don’t tell him the mission._ **

Natasha raises her chin. _I was made to ignore you,_ she thinks. “My partner has been a prisoner of war since before Captain America went down in the _Valkyrie_. He’s old and he’s tired. Let him rest and heal on his own terms.”

There’s a long moment, before Barton bows his head slightly. “I’m sorry – really. You love him?”

A headache blooms immediately. The Black Widow falls back, Natalia taking her place. It’s like a sledgehammer to her skull. Natasha doesn’t flinch.

“Love isn’t real.”

“You love him,” Barton replies with a nod, as if her answer was a confirmation. Natasha turns uneasy and it’s not something she can control – how Natalia slips into the forefront of her brain, the rest of her main personas at her back like an honour-guard.

“Don’t talk to me about him, please,” Natalia says, voice thick and quiet, very different from the blunt American cadence of Natasha. Barton twitches, reading her lips instead of listening. Natalia remembers what Natasha told her about him – he’s deaf and emotionally intelligent to the point where Natalia, the most emotionally aware of them all, looks like a child. He won’t hear the difference in their accents if he isn’t paying attention.

Natalia reaches out, taking him by the wrist like Yasha used to, tugging him lightly away. It’s what gives her away, probably – her want for contact is so very great and Barton is friendly to her, Barton _saved_ them when his handler told him to kill them both. Natalia doesn’t mind showing him this.

Barton’s brow furrows, before he takes her hand instead. Natalia stills, staring at their entwined fingers. _Wrists are not hands,_ she thinks.

Barton squeezes.

“Hello, whoever you are, because I really don’t think you’re Natasha.”

“…my name is Natalia. I’m the one who the handlers in the Red Room talked to, before sending me out on missions as other people.”

“It’s a headspace thing, right? That’s what Natasha said,” Barton says to her and they walk together, hands swinging between them as they head to the coffee room. It’s like something out of a nursery rhyme to Natalia, who doesn’t like anything about the situation now except Barton and his grip on her hand. The Triskelion is too open – the world too wide and unknown.

“Our therapist calls it Dissociative Identity Disorder, compounded and exacerbated by brainwashing.”

“That’s the thing with trauma in kids, I thought,” Barton frowns. “Or it doesn’t exist.”

Natalia glances at him.

“I thought you were supposed to be smart? Natasha said you were clever.”

Barton’s eyebrows rise in surprise, his expression shifting into one of contemplation. “Did she? Huh. Nice of her.” He glances at her sideways, “You’re completely different people, then?”

“Yes. No. Different situations require different approaches. Natasha was built for survival. It’s not safe for me to be out, in case we’re compromised.”

“Why did you… _come out_ , then?”

“Work that out on your own,” Natalia says, squeezing his hand. “Natasha hasn’t known you very long. I know you second-hand. Different things prompt us to the surface. We don’t…speak to each other, like how you might think.”

Barton opens his mouth to speak, but pauses, slowly asking. “You’re called the Black Widow because it’s your codename. But if you’re like this…is that abstract, or is she _someone_ , too?”

As one, blending and blurring, Natalia and Natasha smile.

“A girl’s got to have some secrets, Barton. If you ever _really_ want to know, ask me somewhere we can’t be overheard.”

Barton jerks slightly, but a brightness appears in his eyes and a Cheshire smile twists into being. He tugs her closer, nudging her with his elbow, their hands still clasped.

“Call me Clint – all of you.”

“ _Clint_ …” Natasha rolls his name on her tongue, before trying her luck. “Want to freak out my watchers?”

“How?” he immediately asks and she moves behind him, giving him clear signs of what she wants to do, tilting his shoulders forwards and jumping on his back, arms wrapping loosely around his throat. Clint shifts slightly, but her lets out a puff of laughter and adjusts his grip, grabbing her legs and pushing her further up, still keeping his apple in hand. A laugh leaves her lips and Natalia marvels in amazement.

_‘We’re so high up!’_

_I like it,_ Natasha thinks. The Black Widow’s awareness is lowered – she doesn’t think much of the action, not paying attention to things. Natasha is as much a protector as she is, but Natasha has the one thing the Black Widow seldom has alone: control of the system. Natasha, at the Black Widow’s silence, focuses on the present.

“To the coffee machine!” she exclaims, pointing towards the door. Clint gleefully charges forwards, kicking the door open and barrelling in, cackling as half a dozen agents go for their guns on reflex. Natasha tenses unwittingly, but Clint seems to be expecting it.

Maria Hill presses her lips together tightly. “Really, Barton? _Really?_ ” Her hand deliberately drops from her gun, though her arm is tense as she meets Natasha’s eyes. “What’s up?” she asks, quiet.

“We are,” Natasha replies, before nudging Clint’s chin with her apple, twisting around to bite it. She orders him through a mouthful. “Take me to the coffee machine, slave!”

“Your Majesty,” Clint pouts exaggeratedly. “There is unfortunately a line.”

“Get in line then – or skip it,” she jokes. Natasha adjusts her grip, imagining how she could choke him; how her arms could tighten and she could cut off his air, perhaps even snap his neck. The fact is though: Clint knows and he’s letting her do it anyway.

_All my life has been about violence – it still is, in a way – but I think…_

_‘What?_ ’ Natalia asks.

Natasha digs her chin into Clint’s shoulder, listening to him banter with a shaky agent in black, who looks at her in fear every moment he isn’t looking at Clint. She thinks to the rest of her mental system: _I think we’ve made a friend._

 


End file.
